


Blood Honey

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Procedures, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Scout looks unhealthy, and the Medic resolves to fix it. </p><p>(Remarkably NOT angst!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Honey

“It’s no good if they’re dead, Doc.” The Scout sat, naked to the waist and chewing his fingernails. The Medic grimaced, knowing how filthy the runner’s hands must be. “I dunno how my stomach knows, but if I try to eat off a corpse, I’ll just upchuck it later.” 

“Even taking respawn into account?” Having mostly gotten over his shock, the good doctor was now more interested in fully understanding his subject, rather than recoiling in terror from it. 

“Guess so. It’s like, the blood has to be pumped pretty much direct from the heart, or else I don’t get nothin’ from it.” He picked his teeth, and they seemed normal enough (other than the pronounced overbite), but the Medic had seen the way the Scout could make his canines elongate into treacherous, terrifying points. “So thanks for the offer, but I don’t think a transfusion bag is gonna work. Besides which, ain’t it full of other junk, like… Cripes, someone told me once not to drink from those because it’s not 100% blood.” 

“There are some anticoagulants, yes.”

“Right, see, that’s what I meant.” The runners eyes seemed hollow, even as he smiled. “I appreciate your tryin’ to help, Doc, I know you’re doin’ your job, but, this kinda thing prob’ly ain’t in your medical textbooks, y’know?” He stretched, and his ribs stood out.

“But Scout,” the Medic tutted, taking in the runner’s unnatural pallor, the way his face was beginning to resemble the skull underneath, “You are getting so thin, it can’t be healthy.”

“S’okay. I’m immortal. I can’t starve to death. I don’t like it, but, y’know, I do what I have to. I can take it.” He shrugged, and his prominent collarbones jittered with the motion. “An’ you know, so long as none a’ youse guys take to cookin’ too much Italian, I can still eat regular food. It tastes good an’ all. I just don’t get any nutrition from it.” 

The Medic made a note that the folklore about garlic seemed to be true, unlike the story that one of the Scout’s kind would turn to ash in sunlight, or wouldn’t reflect in a mirror. But, this had all begun because the Medic had noticed how skinny his team mate was becoming, and had vowed to fix it. He’d thought the culprit was a dependence on fizzy sodas, not on living blood. 

“As your doctor, it is my duty to see to it that you are in good physical condition.” Already he’d resigned himself to the only possible solution— the only one that would keep the Scout’s secret from being exposed to the rest of the team. 

“Hey, I’m in great physical condition! Ain’t none of you mortal guys strong as me, or as fast. I got a leg up on you chuckleheads, that way.” He puffed out his chest, and it only accentuated the ridges and valleys of his starving body.

“As you say. But,” and here, the Medic began to roll up his sleeve, “I can’t let you run around like this. Your hunger pangs may grow too distracting, and jeopardise a mission. So. How much blood do you generally need, in order to stave off the cravings?”

“What? Oh, I dunno, couple swallows, really. I mean, I could go totally nuts and drain somebody of every last drop, but, you know, it’s really hard to run after stuffing yourself like that.” He picked at a loose thread in his athletic tape. “I probably don’t even need to eat every day, you know? I’d probably be fine with just half a pint every now an’ then… Aw shit, you got my mouth waterin’ just thinkin’ about it.” He laughed, good-natured as can be. “But you don’t gotta worry about that. I’ll be fine.”

Setting his clipboard to the side, the Medic wheeled his chair closer to the Scout, and cranked it up as high as it would go. “Let us switch places,” he instructed, standing. “You sit here, and I will sit on the exam table.” 

“Okay Doc, whatever you want,” the Scout replied, hopping down from the gurney and letting the Medic climb up. “Whatcha doin’, anyway?”

“Are you comfortable?” the Medic asked, instead, tapping the hollow of his elbow with two fingers to bring the veins into sharper focus. Leaning over, he was able to reach a rolling cabinet, where a tray of his implements lay gleaming. He selected a scalpel, and brought it to his flesh. 

“What are you doing?” The Scout asked again, eyes wide, transfixed by the glint of fluorescent lights off the surgical steel. 

“Preparing your supper,” the Medic answered, before the blade breached his skin. 

He made a small incision, maybe an inch long, and bit his lip as the metal slid through his flesh. He thought, by now, he ought to be used to this kind of thing, but it still hurt, regardless. He glanced at the Scout, whose mouth hung open. His eye teeth had grown to nearly double their usual length, and his eyes were glassy, pupils hugely dilated. 

“Doc,” he croaked, “What…?” He never finished his question. The Medic beckoned him with the bloody scalpel.

“Come, Scout, I don’t know how long it will be before this closes up. You know how quickly I regenerate.” 

Instantly, the Scout was up out of the chair, grasping the Medic’s forearm in a cold but steely grip, body bent at odd angles to seal his lips around the cut and to lick up the blood as it welled. He groaned appreciatively, and the Medic thought, distantly, ‘his tongue is like ice,’ before the Scout pulled away, licking his lips. 

“You know how sometimes, you don’t realise how hungry you are until you start eatin’?” he slurred, eyes still wide-blown. “Thanks Doc. You don’t gotta do that, but thanks.”

“Are you satisfied?” The Medic was surprised. The Scout had barely spent any time at all, drinking blood from the thin line, drawn just under his brachial pulse site.

“Um, I mean… well the cut’s healed up, so. Y’know. Kitchen’s closed, I guess, huh?” The Scout’s grin was tinged pink.

“Nonsense. I will open it up again until you have had a sufficient meal.” 

“You’d do that? Sheesh, no one’s ever offered to do that kinda thing for me. I mean, I heard tell from other, y’know, bloodsuckers I’ve met, some people will offer, but it’s usually in a… how should I put it. Bedroom sorta way.” 

The Scout mimed quotes in the air, and the Medic immediately had a mental image of teeth puncturing his neck as he canted his head back in the throes of passion, or of a mouth latching onto his femoral pulse site and drawing up the blood there. He swallowed thickly. 

“It is my medical responsibility,” he insisted. “After all, I can take a blood transfusion, without so many qualms as you have. And my MediGun is just there, should I need it. Now. Now more dilly-dallying.” 

He opened up his arm again. Again, the Scout bent to him, but his grip was looser, this time. Less desperate. When the cut sealed up a second time, the doctor looked over his glasses at his patient. “More?” he asked, and this time, the Scout merely nodded. 

Twice more, they repeated this exercise, and the Medic wasn’t sure if he was being made dizzy with blood loss, or if the Scout already looked better. Less pale, with more fullness to his face.

“Do you want more?” he whispered, hoarsely, and the Scout licked his own teeth. 

“You’ll spoil me like this, Doc. How am I supposed to say ‘no’? Your blood tastes good. Everyone I’ve ever had tasted different, y’know? Some more sour, some more sweet. Yours is kinda spicy. Dunno why. Maybe you know better’n me on account’a you bein’ a doctor an’ all that.” 

The Medic brought the steel to his arm a fifth time, and his fingers trembled. 

“Watch it, Doc… maybe you oughta quit while you’re ahead. I’m all good, see? Fit as a fiddle! You ain’t gotta do this no more. Thanks, really, from th’ bottom of my heart.” He smiled, congenially, and his fangs stuck out over his bottom lip. He even helped the Medic into a chair, when it seemed he was a bit too light-headed to stand on his own. 

“Why…?” the Medic asked, and the Scout looked around the room. 

“Why what?” He wasn’t getting any clues from their surroundings, so he ignored it, and forged ahead. “You know, now and again I’ve met other folks like me. What a bunch of dickheads, mostly. All goin’ around like, ‘ooh, the blood of a virgin tastes best blah blah…’ Bullshit. You can’t taste no difference at all, but they either wanna sound cool, or sound tough, because there comes a time you realise this is a thing that’s happened to you, and yer stuck with it, probably forever, an’ everyone you ever cared about is gonna die before you. I dunno if having this thing happen makes people fuckin’ dickheads, or if they was dickheads already. Anyway, I’m glad I stopped tryin’ to hang around with those guys.” 

Slowly, the Medic wheeled his chair over to the mini fridge. He would need to buy a carton of baking soda to get rid of the cigarette smell that BLU Spy’s head left in there, but at the very least, the orange juice was untainted. He struggled with the carton until the Scout came over and opened it up for him. He cast about or a moment, before shrugging and drinking directly from the container. The Scout leaned against the counter and sucked his teeth. 

“You gonna be alright there, Doc?” he asked, when the Medic did nothing but take quiet sips of orange juice, for a long while. 

The Medic nodded, and the Scout straightened up. “Good!” the runner answered, before patting the Medic on the shoulder. “Look, it was real decent a’ you t’do this. I’ll catch ya later!” 

He sped out of the room, and the Medic nursed a headache for the rest of the evening. 

—————

Three days later, the Scout was beginning to wane again. His lips seemed thinner, and his hands more bony. Again, the Medic called him into the infirmary. 

“I believe that you are in need of a proper meal again,” he declared, while the Scout set his things on the ground. 

“What? It’s only been a few days. An’ like, I’m not usually one to say no to a free lunch, but, you kinda looked in a bad way, after last time. It’s okay, I’ll figure somethin’ out. Like, maybe if I clock one’a them BLUs with my bat an’ only knock ‘im unconscious, I might be able to get a quick snack in, here or there. Though, I don’t really wanna eat offa none o’ them. Pretty nasty, gotta say.” He pulled a face, and the Medic drew a series of plastic tubes out of a drawer, along with a smallish needle with a plastic cap. “What’s all that for?”

“I think part of the reason I grew so tired after the last attempt was that my body was continually healing itself of the incisions. I hypothesise that an intravenous lead might provide you with the sustenance you need, without causing my body undue stress.” This time, he rolled up the sleeve on the opposite arm. “I am going to start a blood flow from this needle and into this plastic tube. I will only ask that you do not suck or blow into the tube, else you might cause a lethal embolism.”

“So… what should I do then?” The Scout surveyed the array of medical equipment with some degree of unease. He’d never been the biggest fan of shots, and watching the Medic connect his little set-up had his stomach doing odd little flips. 

“What? Oh, I suppose, simply, eh—” the Medic waved a hand in the air. “Swallow?” He reminded himself that this was a purely clinical procedure, and nothing to get worked up over. Nothing to get his heart rate up for. Though, he supposed that would just pump the blood faster, so perhaps it would work out in his favour, after all. He taped the needle in place, and flexed his hand a few times to get the blood flowing. It began to fill the tube and he passed it over to the Scout. “Remember, do not suck on the tube. When you need to swallow, pull away and cover the end with your fingertip, like this.” He blocked off the opening with his forefinger, and the Scout nodded.

“Like holding milk in a straw,” the runner replied. 

“Yes, like your milk trick,” the doctor noted with some distaste. 

“Alright, Doc, I’ll give it a try…” He held his finger over the end of the tube and looked up at the Medic. “Don’t you think this kinda… takes the fun out of it, though?” 

The Medic huffed, and the Scout shrugged, and took the thin tube in his mouth. Slowly, blood began to trickle over his tongue. The Medic held a foam ball and squeezed it in his hand, keeping blood pumping into the tube. After a few moments, the Scout pulled away, and pinched off the line. 

“I can taste the plastic. Oh well. Can’t turn down a hot meal, right?” He popped the tube back into his mouth again. Drumming his fingers and casting about, he fought against the urge to suck the blood more quickly down his throat. The Medic continued to squeeze his foam ball and tried not to mentally calculate how much blood he was losing this way. 

He hated to just mitigate symptoms, but he didn’t think there was any kind of cure for vampirism. Nothing surgical, anyway. He fought to recall the various vampire stories he’d been told as a boy, but never was there an account of a cure, merely methods to drive out and destroy them. 

Well, perhaps that was for the best, if they were as loathsome as the Scout had suggested. 

“Is it true that religious symbols will repel a vampire?” he asked, wondering if perhaps there was some… metaphysical cure for the Scout’s condition. The Scout laughed.

“Shit, Doc, my whole family’s Catholic! Anytime I’m home we all truck over to St. Brigid’s every blessed Sunday!” 

The good doctor looked a little pale.

“That’s just somethin’ those other jerk bloodsuckers made up, like I said! They just come up with this stupid shit to sound more badass than they really are. Buncha pushovers, mostly, fat an’ lazy.” 

The Medic checked his own pulse, and bit his lip. 

“What? Look, don’t let all those old superstitions get to you. You could cut those guys down t’size no problem, I ain’t kiddin’!” 

“Scout…” the Medic mumbled, hesitantly.

“Yeah, Doc?”

“You have been talking with the tube in your mouth. And laughing. And I am concerned that you may have introduced an air bubble into my bloodstream.” 

The Scout pinched off the line.

“Oh yeah?” He looked at the plastic tubing between his thumb and forefinger, and then up at the Medic again. “So, what’s that mean?” 

“Well,” the Medic swallowed, and then swallowed again, “As I have no desire to experience a heart attack or stroke, it means we will be cutting this meeting short, I am afraid.” His upper lip was sweating. 

The Scout’s nose twitched, and he glanced at the injection site, which had begun to bruise. “Um, yeah. Okay,” he replied. With unsteady fingers, the Medic pulled the small needle from his arm. He then stood from the gurney, and left the Scout sitting there, blinking, while he stumbled outside. In the distance, the Scout heard a gunshot, followed by the deep, thrumming machinations that vibrated under the floorboards whenever respawn was activated. 

The Medic reappeared, a minute or two later, and seemed surprised to find the Scout still sitting there. The Scout excused himself with a few muttered half-syllables and shambled out, while an awkward tension stretched out between them.

—————

At the end of the following week, the Medic realised that they needed a new solution. He didn’t know how the Scout’s hunger had escaped his notice for so long. How had he slipped up like that? He couldn’t allow it, not for the medical profession, and not for his pride.

Again, he called the Scout into the infirmary, but this time, he bolted the door and began unknotting his tie. The runner glanced around the room, looking for any kind of explanation. Finding none, he turned his sunken eyes to the doctor and crossed his arms across his narrow chest.

“What gives, Doc?” he queried, as the Medic unbuttoned his collar. Were they about to attempt something a little more, eh, rigorous, to attempt to cure him? Something the Medic didn’t want too many layers for? The Scout wasn’t sure what that would entail, since the man habitually wore three layers on the battlefield, running around and sawing guys in half. What in the hell could be more strenuous than that?

The Medic pulled his collar to the side, seemed to consider, and then removed his vest and shirt altogether. Once more, the Scout came up blank as to the doctor’s motivations. 

“Your kind has survived since antiquity, is this not true?” The Medic’s back was to the Scout, and he schooled his expression. He was about to run another experiment, and it was one of the kind for which he had a particular fondness. His pulse fluttered and he attempted to quash the feeling, biting his lip against that smile with too many teeth for which he, rather than the Scout, was known. 

“Well, y’know, inna manner a’ speakin’, I guess. If you use the term ‘survive’ a little loosely.” The Scout cracked his knuckles, thinking briefly on his purported state of unlife, or to use a more common term, undeath. 

“Yes. And I suppose most of them do not take to such close quarters with others?” 

“Oh, I dunno, Doc, I mean. I was in the Army when it happened to me. Don’t get much closer’n that.” 

The Medic nodded, and turned slowly. “Well,” he said, with an air of finality, “Given such a long history of appreciable success, I thought perhaps we ought to try the old ways of going about your… treatment.” 

Squinting, the Scout remained where he was, although his eyes flickered around the Medic’s form, from his intense expression, to his clavicles, to his navel, and back up again. “How’s that.” 

“I hypothesise that the most effective way of transferring nutrients to you is through application of your canine teeth to the— well.” The Scout’s eyes had begun to glaze over, and the Medic knew the runner would tune out of any medical or anatomical jargon. “You will have to bite me.”

The Scout stumbled as if struck. “You ain’t serious, Doc. C’mon. You don’t know what that does to people.”

“I have read that there can be some physical effects— wakeful paralysis, pain, dizziness associated with blood loss… Nothing that seems too dangerous.” The Medic ticked the list off on his fingers. Authorities differed on what it took for a vampire to create another vampire: some said the ‘victim’ had to be a virgin, others said it had to do with the complete drain of blood from the ‘victim’s’ body, and still others claimed that a vampire possessed some sort of ‘venom’ that, injected intravenously, will pollute the blood and turn the ‘victim’ into an undead creature that stalks the night. In any case, the Medic had to assume that his respawn profile would remain unchanged and he could just reset to default, as it were. 

“Naw, you don’t… Look. I’ll explain it to you like it was explained to me.” He coughed, and straightened up. “When a bloodsucker bites somebody, it’s a-cause we gotta eat, right? So like, if we did it, and the person’s all kickin’ and screamin’, it’d harder to get a decent mouthful. Instead, we got a thing that makes people go all, well, yeah, kinda like they’re asleep, but not. They’re still compost mental, y’dig?”

“Compos mentis,” the doctor corrected, but the Scout pressed on.

“An’ basically, that thing, it makes the whole process feel… not-so-bad, in the moment. Afterwards, yeah, there’s like, little holes, there, and bruises, an’ junk, but uh. Y’know. When it’s happening, it’s like. Well, it makes it easier, anyhow.” He looked at the floor for a moment, before turning his eyes to the Medic again, trying to make him understand. “That might not sound like much, but trust me, you don’t know what you’re gettin’ into.” 

That only piqued the Medic’s curiosity. A natural, or rather, supernatural analgesic? One he’d never before experimented with? He blinked very quickly and took a step toward the Scout. 

“I’m sure I can manage,” he insisted.

The Scout scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Goddammit, I gotta spell it out for ya?! Look, it—” his lips screwed into a funny line and his hands flailed in the air. “It makes people all horny, Doc! I mean, how else you gonna let someone bite all up on your neck? You gotta be, you, you know!” His eyes were wide and his limbs jittered. “An’ sometimes that’s okay, you know, like when th’ other person knows about that and is, like, hip to what might go down, right?” 

Slowly, the Medic pursed his lips, thinking. “I suppose…” he drawled, contemplating. His eyes fixed on his map of the cardiovascular system on the wall. “I suppose,” he began again, “—that you’ve told me, and now I am aware. That fulfils your requirements for being ‘hip’ to the circumstances, ja?” He slid his eyes over to the Scout, and quirked an eyebrow with little subtlety.

“I— I mean. Uh. Doc. I mean uh. I ain’t even got a bucket of chicken or nothin’—” he tried to joke, and fell flat, before puffing up as best he could in his horrifically malnourished state. “I mean, yeah, sure, totally, we can totally, you know, do that thing. It’ll be awesome, because I am awesome, and you’re awes— uh, you’re… pretty cool, too, I guess. You gonna be all under my spell, an’, uh. Shit. You know.” He scratched his neck. It wasn’t the same as with folks he’d probably never see again. He’d have to face this guy down every day. What the hell does a guy say in a situation like that?

“Now then!” the Medic interjected, ignoring the Scout’s posturing as well as any member of their team did. “What is most natural for you?”

The Scout floundered for a moment before realising the doctor meant for feeding, not for, well. Other things. “Uh, I guess, if you, like, sit on the table, I could, y’know, get at your neck.” He hoped he was reading the Medic’s cues right, because his plan involved standing between the man’s thighs, and he wasn’t really interested in having a saw put through his sternum. When the Medic sat, and the Scout started nudging the man’s knees, he watched the Medic smirk and couldn’t stop the flow of words. 

“Yeah, just, you know, relax, Doc, you are in expert hands. I totally know what I’m doin’, and it’ll be, uh, it’ll be good. Good like, like, somethin’ that’s real good, you know?” He racked his brain for Medic’s interests, glancing around the room as he stepped closer to the doctor. “Good like voluntary surgery.”

The Medic laughed, at that, and the sound sent a spike of adrenaline through the Scout. It was a sound he usually heard in the midst of battle, when the team was doing particularly well. He edged a little closer, until he could feel the heat coming off of the other man, could see blue lines of veins beneath his skin. He licked his lips, and felt his canines elongate. The Medic placed his hands on his own knees, and the crooks of his arms brushed the Scout’s sides. 

“Alright, Doc, look at me, I’m gonna do the thing, now.” He focused, allowed his world to narrow, like watching the ball leave the pitcher’s hand, like feeling the bat crack an enemy’s skull. The Medic’s pupils dilated as the Scout’s focus engulfed him, black swallowing the blue irises of his eyes. Time slowed, and the Medic’s breathing went with it— even, rhythmic, but slow, slow, each breath a process of increments. His heart rate picked up to compensate. With another step, the Scout was flush with the Medic’s body, and he could bend his head, and drink.

The Medic smelled clean, freshly showered, and vaguely antiseptic. His pulse fluttered, and the Scout’s mouth watered. When the runner’s lips brushed skin, they raised gooseflesh, the skin tightening, and when his teeth scraped, the goosebumps spread all the way down the Medic’s arms. Finally, his cold breath puffing over the Medic’s throat, the Scout bit down.

It was a slow press, sharpened teeth sliding into the Medic’s flesh, and the runner shuddered. It had been so long since he’d had this. The involuntary motion jostled his teeth, and blood welled up around them, and leaked onto his tongue, hot and vital. He was starved. 

He pulled back to suck at the wounds, to draw blood up to the surface and let it fill him. It raced through his system, spreading heat down his throat and to his core, radiating outwards, in the most delicious, exquisite burn. He moved an inch or so down the Medic’s neck, and bit again. He could feel it, making him whole and new again, wetting his dry veins, spurring his undead heart. He licked at the Medic’s throat, whispering encouragements and promises, and closed his teeth once more. As the blood pooled under the Scout’s tongue, he let his eyes fall shut, before swallowing, rapturously. The blood sank into him, and he moaned.

To his surprise, the Medic answered him.

Usually, the Thrall made people pretty quiet, if still technically conscious. He pulled back, glanced at the network of dentition and flushed skin that stretched across the Medic’s neck and shoulder, and then turned his eyes to the man’s face. Rather than staring straight ahead, the Medic’s dark, glassy eyes were fixed on him, and even though his face did not move, another quiet groan bubbled up from between his motionless lips. The Scout licked blood from the corners of his mouth, and dipped again. 

When he did, he could feel the Medic’s erection, pressing through his trousers to jut into the Scout’s abdomen. Hesitantly, he shifted his body to slide against it, and felt it twitch in a way that lit the Scout’s nerves and set his newly-acquired blood rushing. He licked one of the already healing bites, and felt as much as heard the sound that rose in the Medic’s throat. 

“Fuck, Doc,” he mumbled into the man’s shoulder, before sinking his teeth in for another mouthful. “Dunno what you got me cravin’ more.” He continued to glide his body up and down, raising up on his toes and rolling back down again to slide against the Medic’s cock, feeling it out. “Feels like you wanna fuck my guts, shove your cock up under my ribs and fuck the space between my lungs.”

The Medic moaned again, sharp, sustained. His wide eyes fixed hungrily on the Scout’s, when the runner looked up, and the Scout sucked his teeth. He kissed his way down the Medic’s body, from the constellation of pinpricks and bruises to the clavicle, down the pectoral to the ribs, down the stomach until he hit the Medic’s waistband and dropped to his knees. 

“Doc, you ready for this? Say something for yes, or silence for no.” 

“Ugn,” the Medic answered, his cock twitching in his pants even as the rest of him was paralysed. 

“Okay, okay good. Fuck, I’m just gonna…” The Scout popped the button on the Medic’s trousers, and carefully inched the zipper down. The Medic sighed with relief. When the Scout pulled him out through the fly on his undies, he moaned so loudly the Scout actually glanced at the door. “Yeah, goddamn. I want this so fuckin’ bad right now, Doc,” the Scout rambled, sliding his fist up and down the Medic’s cock, feeling him out. He couldn’t wait. So he didn’t.

While it was initially a little strange to suck off a partner who couldn’t throw his head back, or grip the Scout’s hair, or clamp his thighs around the Scout’s head, he couldn’t help but slide down the Medic’s cock, testing his limits, seeing how much he could swallow down. Sucking his way back up again, he listened for the Medic’s sounds, and drank them in. For being mostly catatonic, the doctor was wonderfully responsive; high, fluting sounds when the Scout licked around his head, deep, growling moans when the Scout slurped his way down to the Medic’s base in one, fluid slip. He pulled the man’s shorts out of the way as much as he could, and slid his fingers in to stroke and tease the Medic’s skin. 

Maybe he’d get lucky and the Thrall would wear off before he was done, so the Medic could move and roll and push and pull and work as much as the Scout wanted him to. He lapped at the slit and swore he felt the Medic’s thighs twitch. Pushing his way back down again, he groaned at the thought, and revelled in the doctor’s answering gasp. He slid one hand down to rub at the Medic’s balls as best he could through the man’s thick trousers, and brushed the doctor’s inner thigh with the other. Alright, he definitely felt a quake, then. It made him suck a little harder, made him moan again around the Medic’s cock. 

He felt good. He felt better than good. Better than he’d felt in months, probably, and it wasn’t all to do with his full stomach. His eyes were closed and his tongue pressed along the underside as he bobbed his head up. A shiver crawled up his back and crackled in his hair, the way the Medic hissed and hummed. Then, he felt a tickle at his ear. 

The Medic’s hand, working deliberately twitched toward the Scout’s skull, and the runner paused with his lips still wrapped around the man’s heavy cock, a question in his eyes. With slow determination, a smile crept up one side of the Medic’s face. The Scout moaned loud and long and sucked his way down again, brows knit in desperation. God, he wanted to make the Medic come, he wanted the man to snap out of the Thrall and grip his head with both hands and fuck his throat. He whined, and it was a strangled sound because the Medic’s cock was in the way, and he reached down to squeeze himself through his rough knickerbockers, and felt a jolt, like he was so close already with just that single touch. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled again, “Shit, Doc!” 

“Yesss…” The Medic slurred, face still stiff with paralysis, but fingers creeping numbly into the Scout’s hair. 

At first, they just sat there, resting against the Scout’s scalp, but then, by degrees, the Medic’s fist tightened, and he gripped the Scout’s hair, holding the runner steady while the Medic’s hips snapped spasmodically towards him, forcing his cock into the Scout’s mouth at rough, uneven intervals. 

“Yesss…” he hissed again.

The Scout gripped the edge of the table, allowed his eyes to fall half-lidded, and let the Medic fuck his mouth. He moaned, and nearly choked on a deep thrust, but his cock leapt in his pants. He groaned his approval, and Medic’s other hand joined the first, tugging his head down while his hips bucked up. 

“Ssscout,” the Medic forced out, lips not yet fully cooperating, and the Scout’s body blazed at the sound of his name, rasped, drawn out like that. “Will yyyou ssswall-ow?” The Scout nodded minutely. The Medic’s fingers tightened in his hair. 

The Scout’s focus narrowed again, but it was different this time. Before, it was a quiet focus, a focus that pulls in, the receding wave. This was loud, intense, pushing out and into the Medic, the crashing surf. His sounds were constant, pleading, muffled by the flesh in his mouth. The Medic’s rose in volume. 

“Scout,” he barked, sharp, definite, his body working fluidly again, “I’m going to come, I— I— Oh, oh, Scout, yes, Ah—hh!” 

And Scout swallowed while the Medic came over his tongue, moaning, licking, happy. He sucked until the Medic forced him off, and then he licked his lips. The Medic shuddered through an aftershock that made his feet tingle in their boots. He rubbed his thumb across the runner’s cheekbone fondly before reaching behind himself to grope at his instruments tray. It was a simple thing to prick his finger against a scalpel, and to brush that finger against the Scout’s lips. The runner sucked the Medic’s finger into his mouth, and licked lazily at the thin cut, one hand rubbing the front of his trousers. 

“Do you want me to do anything for you?” the Medic asked, abut the Scout shook his head slowly, not releasing the finger. 

“’m good,” he slurred, hips pressing into his hand.

“Well, at least unzip your trousers… unless you want to make a mess of them,” the Medic urged, and with impatient fingers, the Scout obeyed. As soon as his cock met the air, his fist was around it, stroking fast and hard. He continued to suck at the Medic’s finger, even when it stopped bleeding, his tongue rubbing the pad of the finger, over and over. He groaned, lost to the sensation, the taste, the sound of the Medic’s voice. “Are you going to come soon?” the doctor whispered, a teasing lilt to his voice that had the Scout swallowing, and stroking faster. “You are so hard, so full of my blood. Are you satisfied? Sated?” The Scout moaned desperately, and the end of it broke off, and he pulled away from the Medic’s hand to lean his face into the man’s thigh, and he arched, and came across the floor in several long, ecstatic stripes, teeth buried in the fabric of the Medic’s trousers. 

After several bewildered, euphoric moments, the Scout’s shoulders relaxed, he extricated his teeth from the coarse fabric, and sat back on his heels, looking up at the Medic. The Medic looked down at him. The Scout’s mouth stretched into a smile as his canines returned to normal. The Medic answered it. 

“I think you are looking better. More colour to your cheeks, more fullness to your flesh,” he commented. The Scout’s smile took a wicked turn.

“Oh yeah? You prescribin’ me a regimen of blood and blowjobs, then?” He made a crude pantomime involving his hand, his tongue, and his cheek. 

The Medic clicked his tongue good-naturedly. “If you’re not careful, I just might,” he ribbed.

“Am I ever careful?” the Scout retorted, standing, and falling back into a chair to rub feeling back into his calves and feet. 

“Never.”

“Well then I look forward to the next time.” 

The Medic stood from the exam table and tucked himself away. He stretched, and strode over to where the Scout sat, stooped, and kissed the corner of the Scout’s mouth. He licked a ghost of dried blood away. The Scout snorted a laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I can't believe I totally forgot to upload this!


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